My Body is a Cage
by pterryfan
Summary: Eames uses her pet phrase at the wrong time. Yes, I know it's not "My body is a cage," I named this piece after one of my newest songs.  If you review it, I will answer you, I promise!


My Body is a Cage

A/N: Okay, the title has nothing to do with the story, except I was listening to it as I was writing, it's Peter Gabriel's version, and I think it's pretty darn creepy.

PS. If this feels somewhat familiar to Scribire's second chapter of "The Life you Save" that's no coincidence.

The suspect had seemed so calm at first; that's why Bobby had allowed her to interrogate him alone; she had done it hundreds of times by now. But for some reason, her pet phrase rubbed him the wrong way, in the worst way.

This guy, they barely liked him for the crimes, but just to be sure, just to have all their ducks in a row for the prosecutor, she was doing this dance with him, alone, in a room with her boss and her partner watching her and _he wasn't even cuffed to the table_. How's that for hubris?

"Look, Detective, I'm sure we can get together on this one. I wasn't there that night," said Curly, seeming so very calm, so relaxed, and unconsciously, she relaxed too. She looked through her papers to find what she was looking for.

"No see,"—and there it was, the first light of anger, an unexprected, unnatural-seeming light (where had that come from?) in his eyes at her words—"We have a surveillance video of you being there the night in question," she passed the photograph of him over so that he could see what she was talking about.

Curly shook his head. "Lady you can surveil all you want, but I wasn't there that night. Surveillance, serveil—what, did this man listen to Sarah Palin, for his wording to be that bad? Sheesh. "That really doesn't matter, Curly, we've already searched your place for the weapon used to murder these two men."

Curly chuckled, chuckled as if she had made a joke that wasn't that good, but he wanted to humor her. "Detective Eames, you won't find anything of use in my place. There's nothing to _find_."

The second time she made the mistake. Second time's the charm, right? "No see, we found the false bottom of—"

Curly was up in a heartbeat, and she grabbed for her gun, but faster than she was, faster than she had thought possible, faster than _breath_, he had gotten the chair he was sitting on, swung it around, flung it, and yelled at her, "Shut _up_, Mom! Just _shut up_!"

With the word "Mom" she knew she had fucked up, they had all fucked up, because he was a lunatic, he was damaged, they should have cuffed him—the cuffs go through a curved piece of metal attached to the table, the table was bolted to the floor, God, that's what they should have done—and now he was at her, all over her face, slamming his fist into her face, and her head to the floor, and now he was using the table leg while her head moved back and forth, again, again against the table leg. _The piece of metal_, she thought, _what's it called, it's got a name._ She held onto this thought in her head as she felt warm liquid of her own blood on her shoulders and back. _No_, she thought dizzily. _Not my brain, need brain to think, need brain, need. . . brain . . ._

It had taken about thirty seconds, the interview cameras would later attest, but her brain never had had that internal clock some people had, and she would never have used the cliché that _it felt like hours_, but. . .

Then finally her Bobby—she knew he was something else to her, but for now she just remembered that he was Bobby and that he was hers—was gaping down at her, shouting for her to stay awake. "Eames? Eames, listen to me, you're going to be okay! Stay with me!"

"That metal thing," she murmured.

"What? A . . .a gun?"

"No. . . table, cuffs, that thing. . ."

"I—I don't know what it's called. Eames . . . please!"

He didn't know what it was called either! That was pleasing to her, that there was something he didn't know, but now she didn't know what it was that he didn't know, and now she didn't know anything as the darkness took her out.

Hehe, why are we the most proud of our darkest works? I don't know really. Hey, does anyone know what that thing really is called? I made a plot point of my own darn ignorance, now I'm stuck in a hole. I need an answer, and if someone would be so gracious . . .


End file.
